


Phthonus At The Gates Of Tartarus

by leonidaslion



Series: Phthonus [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dom/sub, M/M, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-09
Updated: 2011-04-09
Packaged: 2017-10-17 19:08:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/180238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonidaslion/pseuds/leonidaslion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That conversation Sam wanted to have just isn't going according to plan ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Phthonus At The Gates Of Tartarus

**Author's Note:**

> [Art](http://bite-my-muse.livejournal.com/1823.html#cutid1) by nyaubaby  
> [Art](http://amber1960.livejournal.com/31725.html) by amber1960

They do talk about it when Sam gets back, but Dean has the feeling that the conversation isn’t going the way his brother wanted it to. Dean can’t be blamed for that, although he can be blamed for a hell of a lot of other things. He can be blamed for not watching out for Sam well enough to keep him safe. He can be blamed for not recognizing just how messed up his brother was by those countless Tuesdays.

He can be blamed for Raven Nightshade _(aka Ronald Seth Mezitt, age 21)_ , who spent the early hours of the morning lying cold and mangled on the pavement with his guts torn free from his body and carried off fuck knows where.

The paper that Sam picked up when he went out—the paper with its stark headline, **Sweetmeat Serial Killer Strikes Again** —lies on the table where Dean threw it. There’s a photo above the fold, but the picture is of Ronald Mezitt and Dean doesn’t recognize him. He doesn’t know this kid with the floppy brown hair and the doe-like blue eyes and the wide, unabashed smile. This kid looks nothing like Raven Nightshade with his black hair and his trench coat and his strappy pants.

This kid is dead.

This kid is dead and it’s all Dean’s fault.

“Goddamn it, Dean, look at me!” Sam yells. He’s been demanding that for a while now, but Dean can’t stop staring at the paper, at that face, long enough to obey. Then Sam’s hand digs into Dean’s elbow and Sam drags him around bodily, setting off a muted ache in his ass and thigh muscles.

“This wasn’t our fault,” Sam says, low and intense. “It wasn’t supposed to hit again for another two nights. There was no way we could have—”

“You don’t stick your dick where your gun is,” Dean mutters, jerking back out of his brother’s grasp. It isn’t a saying that ever made a whole lot of sense to him—Dad made it up years ago when he caught Dean messing around with a witness, probably on the spur of the moment—but it’s appropriate for their current situation and Dean isn’t really thinking clearly enough to come up with anything better.

Sam, whom Dean used to believe couldn’t figure out how to jerk off before he left for Stanford _(where he apparently enrolled in How To Fuck Your Brother Into Next Week 101)_ never got that particular gem of wisdom, of course, so he gives Dean an incredulous look and says, “What?”

“No fucking in the middle of a case,” Dean repeats more clearly. His hands itch for a gun and something to shoot. Preferably the same something that has been disemboweling people in this godforsaken town.

“Dean, you fuck in the middle of cases all the time!” Sam shouts, gesturing wildly. He looks kind of like a spastic monkey when he does that, which is usually vaguely embarrassing for Dean. Right now, though, he’s too distracted by the dead kid staring back up at him from the table to give a shit how Sam’s behaving.

“Yeah, well that’s different,” he maintains, scowling.

“ _How?_ ”

Dean considers coming back with ‘because I wasn’t fucking my brother’, but while that might be _an_ answer it isn’t the answer that matters. Not right now. Not anymore.

“Because no one ever _died_ before, Sam!”

Sam’s face goes shocked and hurt, as though Dean just sucker punched him. Dean hates seeing that expression, he hates how liquid and wet Sam’s eyes have gone, but he can’t deny that there’s a warm flare of victory in his gut as well. For the first time since Sam mauled him in the club he feels like he has the upper hand again. Like he has somehow found his way back to the moral high ground. Fucked if he’s letting Sam drag him down from here again.

Then Sam blinks and his expression thaws a little. Letting out a harsh sigh, he says, “Look, man, I know how you feel, but—”

“No,” Dean interrupts before his brother can really get going and muddy the waters with his special brand of convoluted logic. “No, Sam, you don’t. You don’t know the first fucking thing about how I feel right now.”

Usually being interrupted is enough to set Sam off, but today he just gives Dean a patient look and replies, “You’re feeling angry, and guilty, and scared. But you _didn’t know_ , Dean. There’s nothing you could have done.”

“I could have done my _job_!” Dean yells, turning away sharply and to hell with the sudden increase of the ache in his ass. He’s too on edge to stay still: lets the guilt and anger carry him away from the table and his brother in a stiff stalk. “I could’ve kept my head in the goddamned game and done my fucking job.”

He doesn’t want to look at Sam, but it isn’t safe to let Sam out of his sight anymore—if Dean isn’t careful he could end up pinned to the bed with his brother’s tongue down his throat in a misguided attempt to calm him down. So when he runs out of space he turns around again, back to the wall and eyes darting everywhere around the room except the table where his brother is standing. Ducking his head, he rubs the back of his neck a little—and fuck, he’s sore there too: is there anywhere Sam _didn’t_ bite him last night?

From the edges of his constantly shifting gaze, Dean sees his brother watching him with a half-pitying, half-frustrated expression. Usually, Dean can count on Sam to pull out some particularly impassioned argument when he’s wearing that look, but today he’s just standing there silently. After a few seconds, Dean realizes that his brother isn’t going to say anything else. Not right now, at least.

No, Sam is storing up the rest of this conversation for later: saving whatever line of attack he’s contemplating for a moment when Dean will be too distracted or off balance to put up any rational defense. The smart thing to do would be to pursue this now—settle this before Sam has had time to figure out how to box Dean into a corner.

But Dean doesn’t want to argue about it. He doesn’t want it to be an issue at all. He’s pissed off about the kid, who would be alive if Dean hadn’t let his dick lead him right back here and into Sam’s bed. Sam’s smug confidence that this thing between them isn’t just okay but _right_ , as well as his own weakness and confusion on the matter when this should be an easy decision—the easiest decision—are just the icing on the cake.

Sam’s his little brother. Dean practically raised the kid, for fuck’s sake! He changed Sam’s diapers, kept him fed, cleaned him off when he tripped over his own feet and scraped his knees up on the sidewalk.

Christ, he has no clue how they got from there to here.

Before last night, he never got the faintest vibe that Sam’s feelings for him weren’t exactly brotherly, and he sure as shit can’t come up with any rational line of thought on his own part that led to him willingly _(and he was willing, oh yes he was)_ bending over the bathroom sink and begging Sam to pound his ass.

And somewhere between rounds two and three, Ronald Mezitt was halfway across town having his intestines ripped out of his body.

They’re still alive when it happens, Dean remembers with a chill. They’re alive until the sick son of a bitch cuts both ends of the entrails free and spills waste and toxins into the empty space left behind.

“Fuck,” he whispers, rubbing his eyes with one hand.

Sam is still silent across the room, waiting, and Dean’s grateful for the time to regroup. It takes a couple minutes of deep breathing before he feels steady enough to lower his hand again and lift his head. Most of the turbulent, confusing emotions coursing through him have calmed—dulled by the weariness muddying the edges of his thoughts.

Clearing his throat, Dean walks _(slowly now, more careful of his aching body)_ back to the table, where he picks up the paper. “Do we know where they found him?” he asks softly.

“A couple of blocks from the club,” Sam answers as he pulls a chair out on the other side of the table and sits down. “Whatever this thing is, it has to be using the club as a hunting ground.”

Which means more investigating, which means the return of the leather pants and eyeliner. Just when Dean thought this day couldn’t get any better. Grimacing a little at the thought of having to put on that ridiculous outfit again—especially when he feels as craptastic as he does right now—Dean drops the paper and nods.

“Alright. So today we go back to the station, check in with Officer Krispe Kreme and the M.E.’s office, see if they turned up anything new.”

He turns away, heading for the bathroom. If he has to wear those pants again tonight, he’s gonna wash them first. Sam wiped them both down with Dean’s shirt after that first rush of insanity in the club, of course, but mesh isn’t really designed to clean up come, and there are probably more than a few white flecks caked onto the leather. Which reminds him ...

“Also, I’m gonna need a new shirt. Someone ruined my last one.”

“No.”

Dean stops in the bathroom doorway, surprised by the authority in his brother’s voice. As he turns around, his stomach flutters and warms in that new, confusing way it has, but he’s careful to keep his face neutral.

“You got a better idea, college boy?”

Meeting Dean’s gaze steadily, Sam shakes his head. “No, I mean you aren’t coming. You can come with me today if you want, but you aren’t going anywhere near the club.”

The soft flutter of arousal in Dean’s stomach is instantly flattened by anger. “Dude, seriously? You’re _benching_ me?”

“Dean—”

“Just because you stuck your cock up my ass last night doesn’t give you the right to treat me like some helpless chick,” Dean snaps, ignoring his brother’s attempt to speak. “I’m _older_ than you, remember? Plus I didn’t spend three years jerking off on the sidelines like some pansy ass college boys around here. If anyone’s getting benched, you better believe it’s you, buddy.”

Sam presses his lips into a thin, angry line and then reaches over to the seat beside him with a jerky lunge and grabs the manila folder holding all of the evidence they’ve collected on this case. Opening it, he starts pulling out the glossy eight by tens that the police kindly offered Agents Ford and Hamil.

“Jesse Swinton, Gina McLane, Max Friedman, Anwar Haddad, Carl Tappert, Ronald Mezitt,” he lists, tossing each photo onto the table as he reads off the victim’s name. When he’s done, he lifts his gaze and fixes Dean with a challenging stare. “What do they all have in common?”

“Well, they’re all dead,” Dean answers sarcastically.

Sam’s expression doesn’t flicker. “What else?”

“They’re Goths.”

“And?” Sam prods.

The intensity he’s watching Dean with is starting to get uncomfortable and Dean shifts his weight awkwardly before plastering an annoyed expression on his face. “Oh, give me a fucking break, dude! If you have something to say, just say it.”

“Look at the pictures,” Sam repeats obstinately. “You want to know what they have in common, you just look.”

Dean doesn’t think he likes where this is going, but he knows for sure that Sam isn’t going to drop it until he gets his way, so he scowls and stomps back to the table. Spreading the photos out with one hand, he glares down at them and does his best to ignore the weight of his brother’s steady regard.

All of the victims are fairly young, but any resemblance between them ends there. Jesse Swinton, Max Friedman and Ronald Mezitt were white. Carl Tappert was black, though, and Anwar Haddad was Arabic somewhere beneath the tattoos and the make-up. Gina McLane was a woman, and a hot one at that: pale skin, dark hair, startling blue eyes. The only thing they all have in common, aside from their excruciating deaths, is the fact that they each visited the River Lethe before they were killed.

Which probably isn’t what Sam’s looking for either.

Yeah, Dean has no fucking clue what he’s supposed to be looking at.

Finally, after he figures that he’s looked long enough, he waves his hand over the photos and grunts, “Okay, and?”

“They’re beautiful,” Sam says. The gravity in his gaze makes Dean’s skin itch. “Any one of those people could have made a small fortune modeling.”

“So? What does that have to do with me?”

Sam continues to look at him silently, with this little twist to his mouth that’s asking how Dean can be so obtuse, and Dean’s cheeks heat. He flashes on last night, on the strange creature he saw in the mirror when Sam was fucking him. His chest twists in an unnerving, awkward manner, and he drops his eyes.

“I’m not bringing you back there, Dean.”

Pursing his mouth, Dean rubs at the back of his neck again. Of all the things that have happened over the past twenty-four hours, this is probably the hardest to wrap his head around. Being told that he can’t go on a hunt because he’s too damn pretty.

Bobby would laugh his ass off if he were here.

“You don’t know that it’d come after me,” Dean says finally.

Sam laughs, and the hard, incredulous edge to the sound makes Dean’s skin prickle.

“You don’t even know it’ll do anything tonight,” he continues, despite the rising tension in his stomach. “It’s been feeding every four nights, so—”

“Except for last night,” Sam interrupts.

Something in his brother’s voice catches Dean, makes him want to squirm. He wants to back away from the table, from Sam, from wherever this conversation is going, and doesn’t know how. He doesn’t know how to do anything but lower his head and plough his way forward like a wounded bull.

“We don’t know why it broke its pattern,” he maintains, praying that Sam will agree—that he won’t say what Dean thinks he’s about to.

But God has never come through for him before, and He isn’t going to start now.

“I do.”

Dean glances up at the intensity of his brother’s voice, and Sam is staring at him. There’s more gravity than heat to his eyes, an expression tinged with grudging regret, and there’s no mistaking the implication.

But Dean just can’t accept that. He _won’t_.

“No,” he says. His legs are finally working, backing him up from the table as he shakes his head. “No fucking way.”

“Dean—”

“I said _no_ , Sam!” Dean shouts, balling his hands into fists. “I’ve got no problem admitting that I’m responsible for that kid’s death, but I’m not. Not like that.”

“I felt it, Dean.” Sam’s voice is nothing more than a whisper, almost too quiet to hear, but his words stop Dean cold. There are shadows in his brother’s eyes: something hollow and hurt and wretched. “I felt it looking at you … wanting you. Fuck, everyone in there wanted you. Why should this son of a bitch be any different?”

Sam laughs, wild, and looks down at the pictures spread out across the table. Horror is cloying and thick in Dean’s throat, making it difficult to breathe, let alone rant and rail the way he wants to. He hasn’t felt this trapped since Bobby left him to sit with his brother’s rotting corpse.

 _Shut up, Sammy,_ he thinks. _Just. Shut up and we’ll pretend you never said anything._

But instead Sam lifts his eyes again—is there black there? gold? is Dean seeing anything clearly enough to recognize either of those colors if there were?—and says, “It was so _angry_. When I touched you. And then, when I took you away, I could feel it—like heat inside my bones.” He drops his head forward again, sharply, and catches it in his hands. “God, Dean, it wanted you so much …” he whispers, gripping handfuls of his hair and clenching.

It never even occurs to Dean to doubt his brother. Sam’s distress is too genuine.

After a moment of struggling to find his voice, he rasps, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

Sam lifts his head, strands of hair pulling free from his fingers. When he meets Dean’s gaze, there’s no shame in his eyes. No regret.

“Because I wanted you more than I cared about how it was going to react,” he says in a flat, hard voice. “So if you want to blame anyone for that kid’s death, blame me.”

Dean wants to. Fuck, Sam _knew_ something was going on and he still dragged Dean out of there. Or maybe Sam dragged him out of there _because_ he knew something was going on. Dean isn’t sure which one would be worse.

So yeah, he wants to blame Sam. He just can’t manage it.

After all, Dean could have said no.

“You felt it.”

Sighing, Sam rubs at his eyes. “Yeah.”

Dean takes a shallow, sharp breath and then makes himself say it. “I thought all that psychic crap was gone.”

Now his brother looks a little shamed, fidgeting in his chair and chewing on his bottom lip. When Sam speaks, his words are dragging and reluctant. “I—it’s a long story.”

Okay.

Okay.

If Dean can handle letting Sam fuck him in the ass—and he can, he’s been handling that fucking awesomely—then he can handle this. He can _fix_ this. He still has a couple of months left, after all. It’ll be plenty of time. It has to be.

Nodding slowly, he says, “When we’re done here, we’re gonna sit down and you’re gonna tell me everything.”

The set of Sam’s jaw hardens and he responds, “You show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”

“I think we’re a little old to be playing show and tell, Sammy,” Dean mutters, but Sam just keeps looking at him and Dean knows that his brother isn’t going to back down. Sam’s going to refuse to tell Dean any more about his powers until they have talked about their—and Dean can’t believe he’s using this word even in his head—'relationship'.

The room spins suddenly as Dean’s vision wavers. He’s been tired since this conversation began, but suddenly he isn’t so much tired as he is exhausted. It’s understandable, he supposes: after last night and the ensuing panic this morning, he would have been worn out even without the added stress of Raven’s death. Coming on top of everything else, Sam’s confession is just a little too much for Dean to process.

God, he just wants to go back to bed. His mind helpfully presents him with a flash of his brother’s long body wrapped around his and he shakes his head, scowling at the accompanying flush of dizziness.

Alone. He just wants to go back to bed _alone_.

But the whole damn mess is still going to be waiting for him when he wakes up, and Dean has never been one to turn tail and run when the going gets tough. Sighing, he drags a hand over his face and does his best to scrape a little more energy together.

“Okay, so what’s the plan?”

“I’m going to go to the police station,” Sam announces, standing up. “You’re going to stay here and sleep.”

Coming so soon after the onset of his exhaustion, Sam’s statement is a little too perfectly timed and Dean jerks. The sharp movement sets off a deep-seated ache throughout his body as his strained muscles cry out in protest, and he takes a second to wince before squinting at his brother.

“Are you reading my mind?”

“No,” Sam answers. He shakes his head as he steps around the table. “I’m not. I just. Dean, I _know_ you.” Dean realizes belatedly that his brother is reaching for him—thinks that maybe he should be stepping back—but it’s too late and a moment later Sam is gently gripping his arm and pulling him close and kissing his forehead. “And I was there last night, remember?” he murmurs, running one hand down Dean’s back. “You’ve gotta be exhausted.”

He is. More so every second, it seems. His rising confusion isn’t helping any either. There’s a part of him _(a large part, if he wants to be honest)_ that wants to lean into his brother’s body and let Sam’s hands stroke him to sleep. But there’s another, more vocal part that’s full of bristling confusion and just wants Sam to get the fuck away from him long enough for Dean to sort out how he feels about everything.

“Sam,” he sighs, bringing a hand up between them to push at his brother’s chest.

“Shh,” Sam soothes. “I’m not going to try anything. Just let me put you to bed, okay?”

He steps backward, drawing Dean along with him, and Dean considers resisting. He wasn’t really in any shape to fight with Sam before, though, and with weariness making his body slow and heavy, it’s near impossible now. Actually, this is damned well the only circumstance under which Dean’s going to let his brother get him within ten feet of another bed.

Which is a little fishy in and of itself, isn’t it?

“Wait,” he says, dragging his feet as best as he can. “Wait, are you—Sammy, are you fucking with me?”

Sam stops, drawing away enough to tilt Dean’s face up to his. Those slanting hazel eyes of his are wounded and Dean feels a pang of guilt for even having had the thought, let alone voicing it. Of _course_ Sam isn’t messing with his head. If Dean were thinking a little more clearly, he’d know that.

“I wouldn’t do that, Dean,” Sam says.

The sad, hurt little voice he’s using makes Dean want to wrap his brother up in his arms and not let go. He can’t manage that, too dead dog tired, but he can and does tilt into the light brush of Sam’s hand on his cheek.

“You’re just tired,” Sam adds, trailing his knuckles down the line of Dean’s jaw.

Dean realizes how close he is to turning his head to the side and kissing the inside of his brother’s wrist and jerks back from the precipice by muttering, “Wouldn’t be if you hadn’t fucking mauled me last night.”

It’s supposed to make Sam let go, but instead his brother laughs softly and eases him back and down onto the bed. The mattress feels way more comfortable than Dean remembers, and he makes an embarrassing noise as he sinks into it.

“Get some sleep, man,” Sam whispers, leaning over him. “You’ll feel better when you wake up.”

Dean sincerely doubts it, but exhaustion has its claws firmly in his skin and is dragging him down whether he wants it to or not. With difficulty, he stirs himself enough to mutter, “Sam, don’t—don’t do anything stupid.”

Sam’s big hand smoothes back Dean’s hair and then rests on his forehead. “I’ll come back here after I go to the station, okay? We’ll have dinner and come up with a plan together.”

“Okay,” Dean agrees through a yawn. As he sinks down into sleep, he thinks he can feel his brother’s lips brushing his, but he can’t be sure.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sam isn’t back yet when Dean wakes up three hours later, but it’s still light out so Dean isn’t worried. Whatever beastie they’re hunting is strictly an after-dark kind of thing, which means that the amount of trouble Sam can get into without Dean there to watch his back is limited. Of course, thinking about Sam out there on his own leads to thoughts of what’s going to happen a couple of months from now, when he’s gonna be alone for good.

Dean’s been trying out different schemes in his head ever since he made his deal, trying to come up with the best way to make sure Sam gets out while the getting’s good. Maybe it’s getting to be time to put Operation Wedding Bells into action—and not just because hooking Sam back up with Sarah would pretty neatly negate the whole incest problem. If Sam’s going to stay behind after Dean is gone, after all—if he’s going to be happy and not throw himself away—he’s going to need something to stay _for_.

If Sarah doesn’t work out, Dean’s not above finding himself some orphan kid and making up a cock and bull story about a one night stand he had in Tulsa or something. No fucking way would Sam leave someone he thinks is Dean’s without protection. Kid would benefit as well, because Sam's gonna make an awesome dad, so that particular plan has the benefit of working from multiple angles.

Just as long as Dean can get Bobby to help him rig the DNA test Sam’s probably gonna require to buy the timing.

Actually, the longer that Dean sits there thinking about it, the more he’s beginning to realize that he probably won’t get a better chance to end things right than this. Leave Sam with the memory of last night, which was pretty kickass if Dean takes away all of the complications that his still-breathing body adds to the equation. Go down swinging, drawing the son of a bitch out into the open where Sam’ll be able to get at it: one last, successful hunt.

It’ll suck for the kid to have to see Dean go down, but Dean’s just selfish enough to want his brother there when he goes.

Not that he isn’t going to try not to get dead, but if it does happen? Not a bad way to end things, all in all.

Picking up his cell, he checks in with Sam first—doesn’t want his brother to walk in while he’s having his conversation with Bobby—and when he’s been assured that Sam will be back in about an hour, he calls Bobby to make arrangements. The man isn’t thrilled with what Dean has to say, but in the end he owns that Dean’s plan, dishonest as it is, actually has a decent shot at working. As long as Sam doesn’t go and turn himself into the spitting image of Dad, that is.

“Won’t be a problem,” Dean assures him. “If I go down, this son of a bitch is going right after me. Vengeance problem solved.”

“And what’s gonna stop Sam from running himself to the ground trying to haul your sorry ass back up out of the Pit?” Bobby demands. His voice is gruff, but Dean’s pretty sure it’s just nerves at the awkwardness of this conversation, which is probably going to be their last.

He feels it himself—flurry of nerves at this half-assed goodbye to a man that’s been a second father to him—but he isn’t going to spoil the moment with sentiment any more than Bobby is. Shoving his own feelings aside, he keeps his voice steady and smooth as he answers, “You are. I’m counting on you here, Bobby.”

Bobby swears under his breath and Dean jokes, “Bet you’re glad you won’t have to put up with my crap anymore, though, huh?”

“One more wisecrack like that and I’ll call Sam up right now and tell him to chain your suicidal ass to the bed,” Bobby snaps back. The words are rough with fury and another emotion Dean doesn’t want to name, and he rubs uncomfortably at the back of his neck.

“Sorry.”

“You want to walk into Hell laughing and singing, you be my guest, boy, but don’t you fucking cheapen it like that.”

Dean’s feeling pretty thoroughly chastened now, and his own voice is a husk as he repeats, “Sorry.”

Bobby sighs. “You’re a goddamned mess, Dean, always were. But you’re also the best man I know. No matter what happens, you keep hold of that.”

Dean knows Bobby’s just trying to make him feel better, but that doesn’t stop the words from warming his chest anyway. He has to clear his throat before he can manage to ask, “You’ve got my back with Sam, though, right? Bobby?”

“Like a damned dog with a bone,” Bobby mutters, softly enough that Dean doesn’t think he’s supposed to have heard, and then he comes back more strongly with, “I’ll do what I can to keep his ass on the straight and narrow. Kid’s gonna help, but it ain’t gonna be any kind of substitute for you as far as Sam’s concerned.”

Good. Dean doesn’t want to leave Sam with a substitute. He wants to leave him with something better. Something whole and unsullied by the whole bloody mess that’s been their lives. Something that isn’t broken.

“Look, I gotta. I gotta go get cleaned up a little. Sam’s gonna be back soon with dinner and—”

“Yeah, kid. I got it.” Bobby sighs. “You want me to give him a message? For after?”

Dean blinks. He hasn’t thought of that, but of course Sam’s gonna be pissed if Dean ducks out on him without any kind of goodbye. Dean’s going to get his own goodbye tonight, but that won’t work for Sam, sentimental girl that he is. Of course, he can’t risk leaving anything Sam might find in time to gum everything up.

“Voicemail on my phone,” Dean says finally. “If you can get him to give it a call, that’d be good. Just, uh. Don’t let him know we talked, cause he’d probably be upset.”

“Gee,” Bobby says dryly. “You think?”

Dean smiles at the familiar scorn and then decides to get out while the getting’s good. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Bobby, but I hope I don’t see you around.”

“Yeah,” Bobby agrees. “Good luck bagging your critter.”

Dean hangs up without another word, mostly because he can’t figure out how to end things better than that. He’s pretty sure Bobby understands everything he couldn’t say, anyway.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dinner’s more difficult that Dean thought it would be.

He didn’t expect it to hurt so much, seeing Sam happy. But Dean’s given up protesting his brother’s light, loving touches and hungry kisses—not much point putting up a fuss when it’ll be a moot point in a couple of hours—and Sam’s practically beaming at him. Oh, he was suspicious for all of five seconds, but then Dean fed him some bullshit line about how maybe the whole brother thing doesn’t really matter, since they aren’t hurting anyone, and anyway Dean wants to make the most out of his final months, and then Sam was all over him with that wide, goofy smile that’s making Dean’s chest ache like someone’s sticking knives in it.

Worse than Sam’s obvious happiness, which Dean’s gonna pretty thoroughly destroy in a couple of hours, is how good it feels to let Sam touch him. How easy it is to get lost in the act, forget that he’s nipping a piece of sweet and sour pork from Sam’s fingers for Sam’s sake instead of because it feels like the right thing to do. How easy it would be to make Sam stay here with him tonight, forget about the plans he made with Bobby.

Only Sam’s pretty sure he knows how to kill the whatsit, even if he still isn’t sure exactly what it is, and Dean can’t take the chance that it’ll still be pissed enough about losing him that it’ll kill again tonight. He realizes how cocky that thought is—how freaking _insane_ it is—and smiles a little at his own folly. When he lifts his eyes from the Chinese carton balanced on his knee, he finds his brother smiling back, soft and fond.

This is the moment Dean’s gonna take with him to the Pit. This one right here.

He’s gonna use it to hold on until Sam’s safe—until he’s tucked away in Heaven, or wherever good people go when they die.

After that, he doesn’t really fucking care.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sam leaves for the River Lethe a little before nine o’clock, and Dean uses the reappearance of the eyeliner and the skin-tight pants as an excuse to turn his brother’s fleeting goodbye kiss into a proper farewell. His lips are still tingling half an hour later when he slips out of the room and heads down to the main office.

The girl from earlier is still there, although she must be coming up on the end of her shift by now, and she stands up when he edges inside.

“Hey,” she says, eyes darting over the mouth-shaped bruises littering his bare chest. The fingerprints darkening his hips and wrists.

Dean knows how he looks, but he still blushes a little—this is fucking embarrassing—as he comes up to the counter and drops the CVS bag between them. “This is probably asking a little much, but I, uh, I could use some help.”

The girl leans forward with a dubious expression and takes a quick glance into the bag before looking back up at Dean. “This for him?” she asks, sounding disapproving and uncomfortable at the same time.

For a moment, Dean's hand twitches with the urge to grab the bag back so he can storm out. Or well, limp slowly out. He's already unbent his pride enough just coming here in the first place, damn it. He's not going to stand here while this chick judges him—judges _Sam_.

But he can’t do this on his own—not unless he wants to look like a rabid raccoon, which probably isn’t going to draw the right kind of attention. Wiping one sweaty palm on his pants _(doesn't do much good, since the leather is already damp from his attempts to wash the dried come off in the sink)_ , he huffs out a sharp breath and pastes a scowl across his face.

“Look," he says shortly, "I already told you I was fine. Now are you going to help me out here or not?”

The girl takes the bag down off the counter but continues to frown at him. “You deserve better, you know,” she says, and dire situation or not Dean’s had enough.

“You ever think I might get off on this?” he snaps. “Huh? Ever think I might _like_ people looking at me and knowing I’m his?”

There's a weird sort of rush that accompanies the words _(even though he doesn't mean them; he can't mean them)_ , and Dean can feel his control of the situation—of his emotions—slipping. He can't afford that right now—needs to be on his best game tonight—so he does his best to ignore the confusion in his chest and reaches for the bag.

His muscles give a complaining twinge at the stretch, but he's annoyed enough to turn the groan that wants to come out into a muttered, “Midwestern fucking _hicks_."

The girl colors and yanks the bag back out of his reach. “I’m not a hick,” she shoots back. “I’ve just ... seen too many friends stuck in situations they didn’t know how to get out of. And you looked freaked out this morning.” She peers at him, lips pursing. “You don’t now, though.”

“Cause I’m _not_ ,” Dean replies, although he's feeling plenty twitchy beneath the anger. “Now gimme the fucking bag.”

The girl frowns at him for a few more seconds and then her mouth firms and she shakes her head. “Park it on the stool,” she says, hopping off of it and rolling it toward the aisle.

Throw off by the abrupt shift in attitude, Dean blinks at her. “Come again?”

“You want my help with this or what, buddy?”

Dean hesitates, weighing his options, and then hauls his bruised pride back up around him, steps around the counter and drops into the seat. And then immediately shifts up, wincing, as his ass reminds him why he can’t be so casual today.

Not that he’ll have to worry about it much longer.

“So,” the girl says as she pulls the eyeliner pencil out of the bag and starts sharpening it. “My name’s Amy.”

“Dean,” Dean grumbles.

Now that he’s here, help secured and moments away from having all of that girly crap put back on his face, he’s in a decidedly less pleasant mood. Marching willingly to his death is one thing. Having to buy it when he looks like a goddamned woman is a whole other ballgame.

Unfortunately, it looks like it’s his ballgame.

“You going to that club?” Amy asks, grabbing his face and moving the pencil toward his eye. Dean hastily closes them both and tries to relax his lids the way Sam kept telling him to last night.

“Um, yeah.”

“You might want to think about making other plans,” Amy suggests as she works. “There’s some kind of freaky serial killer who’s been killing people there.”

“Kinda the point,” Dean mumbles, and then mentally kicks himself as Amy’s hands freeze.

“You some kind of danger junkie or something?”

Dean guesses that’s a fair assessment of every hunter ever, actually. He could just agree, let it go at that, but if this is going to be his last night on earth then he wants a little recognition, damn it.

“F.B.I., actually,” he says.

Amy snorts. Maybe Dean should have gone for something a little more local. Oh well, too late to change his story now.

“Really. I’d show you my badge, but it’s kinda hard to fit anything in these pants.” Dean’ll be lucky to wedge his license and the club’s door fee in his back pocket, actually.

“So what, the whole—” Dean feels air waft over his chest, knows that she just gestured at him “—bruised and battered look, it’s part of your cover?”

“Naw, that’s just me and Sam," he lies glibly. It's easier this time, ignoring the almost electric flutter the words cause in his chest. "Fucking makeup’s the cover.”

That gets him a laugh. “Not your usual scene, huh?” She doesn’t sound surprised, and the wry, teasing tone of her voice is close enough to flirtatious that Dean lets himself fall into old habits and gives her the most charming grin he can manage while keeping his eyes closed.

“What gave it away?”

“Oh, I don’t know—how about the fact that you had to ask for help with something as simple as eyeliner. Open and look up.”

Dean obeys, eyes watering, and digs his fingers into his thighs to keep from bolting. He seriously doesn’t get how chicks can put sharp, pointy objects so close to their eyes on a regular basis. Although he guesses it isn’t as terrifying of an experience if they’re the ones controlling where the pencil goes.

Amy finishes pretty quickly, thankfully, and then recaps the eyeliner as Dean blinks his eyes rapidly to clear them.

“So how much are we doing?” she asks, rooting through the bag.

Dean hesitates. Last night he put his foot down after the eyeliner, although Sam bought enough to go whole hog on both of them. As much as he’d like to do the same tonight, he needs to be sure he’ll be noticed, and the disemboweling son of a bitch seems to like his victims painted up.

“Much as you need to make me the prettiest girl at the ball,” he mutters finally.

Amy laughs again, gleefully, and answers, “ _So_ not going to be a problem. Close your eyes again and tilt up.”

It takes all of fifteen minutes for her to be satisfied with his face, but she finally steps back and declares him done. When she offers him a look in the tiny mirror attached to the foundation, Dean doesn’t recognize himself.

The odd, fey creature from last night is back, only more so. Dean’s eyelashes seem longer and fuller than usual, curling up into a smoky smudge of eye shadow. It makes his irises burn with green fire: leaves his expression mysterious and teasing. His lips seem plumper than ever—obscene beneath a dark layer of lipstick.

“Fucking hell,” Dean complains, shifting uncomfortably and looking away from his reflection.

“It’d look better if you had a collar,” Amy suggests, which makes Dean give her a considering look because really, the girl doesn’t seem to be the type. Amy just gives him a confident smile and says, “I have a lot of friends.”

“Bet you do,” Dean says, attempting a leer, but his heart isn’t in it and the attempt falls flat.

Instead of looking interested or flustered the way women usually do when he does that, Amy bites her lip in concentration and leans up to muss his hair.

“Hey!” he protests, batting her hands away. “I got that.”

“Just trying to help.”

She doesn’t seem offended, but Dean softens a little anyway. She has helped, and hasn’t given him too much shit about it. He guesses he should be grateful, nerves or not.

“You did,” he says, getting up and regathering the makeup. “And I appreciate it. But, uh, if the guy I was with before comes in? Only time you saw me was this morning.”

Because if things go down the way Dean expects them to, Sam’s going to come out of it like a raging bull, trampling over everything in his path. Amy doesn’t deserve that, and Sam’d regret it later anyway.

Best to sidestep the whole thing.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean’s cutting it close, slipping into the River Lethe just a few minutes shy of eleven. That leaves him about an hour to attract the right—or in this case the wrong—kind of attention. All of his doubts about whether or not he can manage it disappear the moment he steps through the door.

Heads swivel toward him, tracking his progress as he moves deeper into the club, but that isn’t what makes his breath catch in his throat. It’s the elusive, indefinable hook of hunger that slices through his chest: some ethereal, psychic touch that latches onto him with an immediacy that tells Dean it was waiting for him. Watching for him.

And if even a psychic dud like him can feel it, then Sam has to know, must be turning from wherever he is in this mass of people and pinpointing Dean’s presence.

Oh _fuck_ , Sam’s Haley Joel impression. Dean hasn’t made plans for it, he forgot to tell Bobby ...

But it’s too late for that now, because the hunger is wrapping around him in thick, insistent layers until Dean’s drowning in it. He feels drugged, and not just because he is—swallowed a couple Vicodin before calling the cab so that he wouldn’t be limping around like he spent last night with a tree trunk shoved up his ass. But the painkillers don’t account for the way that he finds himself leaning into the fleeting, casual brushes of hands against his body. They don’t have anything to do with the heat lacing his thoughts, or with the low grade arousal tightening his groin.

He’s wearing his leather jacket—doesn’t match the pants, but fuck if he was walking in here without something to cover up the worst of Sam’s marks—but his chest is bare beneath it and hands keep brushing his skin. Some of the touches are accidental, some aren’t, but in Dean's buzzed state his body is interpreting them all the same way, leaving his cock half-hard and throbbing between his legs.

Suddenly, he wishes that he’d paid more attention to Sam’s information over dinner: that he hadn’t tuned out as soon as the ‘I know how to kill it’ part registered. But he hadn’t wanted to know, then, just what was going to take him out.

It's only on second thought that he's remembering there are worse ways to go out than just having his entrails spilled out on the ground.

Fuck, did he and Sam check the victims for sexual activity? They must have, only Dean can’t quite remember now, and his skin feels charged, like there’s electricity running through him.

A hand closes on his wrist, intent, and his heart stutters as the electricity jumps momentarily before settling into a blinding, staticy cloud. The club is a blur of faces and dark eyes as he’s dragged sideways by a possessive, strong grip. The hunger throbbing through his mind like a second heartbeat has changed, darkened with vicious triumph.

It’s possible Dean didn’t think this through very clearly.

The press of bodies vanishes suddenly, temperature dropping as he’s hauled out of the main room of the club and into a quieter area. Then the hand gives an extra hard yank, sending him stumbling forward, and then lets go. A door closes behind him. Locks.

Dean blinks as he turns, trying to see through the haze, and finds himself in a small storage room. He’s alone, except for how that hunger is still sliding all over him, possessive and content.

“Where the fuck are you?” he demands, the words come out slurred and clumsy.

The hunger gives a pulse that makes Dean’s knees buckle—looks like the fucker likes the sound of his voice—and then something masculine and dark and old whispers through the air.

“You came. We knew that if we Called loud enough you would.”

Dean shakes his head, reaching one hand out toward the wall for support. That isn’t why he’s here, right? Dean decided to show tonight on his own. He thought things through and concluded that offering himself up was the only logical thing to do.

Right?

“We will make the Other go away, make him think you are gone,” the whispering continues. Power slides through the air, stroking over and through him. “Then you can stay here with us.”

“Fuck do you _want_?” Dean growls, trying to sound defiant even as the hunger forces him to his knees.

“We want to be worshiped, like the old days. You will make that happen. You are our chosen priest. You will be perfect to offer sacrifice.”

“Hate—hate to break it to you, but it’s gonna be—be pretty tough to worship you when my—my guts are—are on the floor.”

“We will not kill you,” the whisper promises. “No more than a little death. Just enough to keep you bound to us. We will bring you back then, hollowed out and perfect.”

Dean might be having difficulty thinking through the fog, but he can’t remember any of the victims’ bodies going missing. There haven’t been any tales of the dead walking the streets or of grave disturbances. Nothing to indicate the resurrection deal that this son of a bitch is promising.

“Your other picks didn’t come back,” he says, looking up toward the door and trying to gauge his chances of forcing it open. Maybe if he had something other than bottles of alcohol to hit it with.

“The others were not worthy,” the whisper answers. “We thought perhaps they could be, but there was no strength in them. They were not steeped in blood.”

“And I am?” Dean demands. It’s a stupid thing to feel insulted over, especially when he knows the son of a bitch is right, but he manages the trick just fine anyway. “Fuck you, I’m not a murderer.”

“You taste like blood,” the whisper states, implacable. “The others were nothing. Their deaths will clear the way for your ascension. You will be our priest and wield the stone knife. You will slice hearts from living chests and feed us souls. You will worship us.”

“Sorry, ’m not the worshipping type,” Dean pants as he crawls toward the door. Even if he can’t get it open, he can probably make enough noise for someone to hear him.

“ _You will not refuse the honor._ ” Suddenly, it isn’t a whisper, but a snarl. The possessive force of the thing’s displeasure flattens Dean to the floor. He grunts, and then grunts again when the hunger digs into him.

 **We will hollow you out,** the voice intones, lashing the words through him. **We will adorn you with the wreath of pain and when you are reborn, you will belong to us.**

“Sam,” Dean rasps, clinging to consciousness and stretching one hand out toward the door. “Not gonna ... let you.”

“The Other will leave. We will let him watch as we hollow you. He will think you are gone. He will go. You will stay and worship.”

“Fuck you,” Dean manages, and then sucks in a sharp breath as the hunger washes him away.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

He comes awake sometime later with a blanketed mind and thoughts pulled slow and thick like taffy. The hunger is swaddling him, which leaves him a muddled mix of drunken and aroused, but he’s able to get to his feet. Able to see straight enough to tell that the door is gaping open.

Oh good. Escape.

Stumbling a little, Dean moves toward the door and pushes his way out the other side. He’s in a hallway, narrow and short, and there are doors leading off to either side. Bathrooms, some of them. Probably other storerooms. Nothing Dean wants, at any rate. No, he needs to get out the door at the far end of the hall. That’s where he’ll be safe.

Dean’s steps hurry as he walks toward the door, need for escape pulsing through him with every beat of his heart, and by the time he hits it he’s moving at a staggering run. He pushes out into the main room of the club and stops.

The room is still flooded with those soft, blue and purple lights. There’s no music, though. No crowd. Just thrumming, suffocating energy and two figures.

Even in his befuddled state, Dean recognizes his brother immediately. Sam’s wearing the same Goth get-up he had on last night, although the obsidian knife in his right hand is new. His face is twisted into a snarl, but for some reason he isn’t moving.

Facing him, closer to Dean, is something out of a Smithsonian display.

Dean doesn’t know whether the dude is dressed up like an Aztec or a Mayan or an Incan, but he’d be willing to bet on one of those cultures being home to this thing, which is wearing a short loincloth and has heavy golden hoops in its ears and thick red necklaces around its throat.

No, not necklaces, Dean realizes as it turns toward him.

Intestines.

And they’re moving, writhing against each other like snakes.

Dean’s revulsion snaps him out of his daze, and now he can hear the Call. He can feel the need to go to the son of a bitch throbbing through the marrow of his bones. It isn’t a new feeling—it’s been with him since he woke up—but this is the first moment he’s recognized it for what it is instead of interpreting it as an urge to escape.

It should be easier to resist now that he knows what’s going on, but it isn’t. Instead, Dean watches as he takes steady, even steps forward until he’s standing close enough for Intestine Guy to touch. None of the furious screams in his head are making it out his mouth. From the stiffness of his facial muscles, he can tell that his expression is bland and calm. Like he’s out for a stroll in the park instead of heading over to a guy with body parts slithering around his neck.

“Dean!” Sam shouts. His muscles bunch as he fights to move. His neck cords, lips pulling back from his teeth in a snarl. “You son of a bitch, let him go!”

“This one is ours,” Intestine Guy announces, putting a hand on the back of Dean’s neck.

One of the intestines slithers over as well, flicking wetly across Dean's chest. No matter how much the contact makes his skin crawl, though, he can't make his body flinch away.

When he gets out of this, he's going to shower for a week.

“We have chosen. You may watch while we feast.”

Keeping its hand on Dean’s neck, it turns and leads him toward the bar while Sam shouts and hurls abuse from behind them.

“On the bar, Priest,” Intestine Guy says when they reach the gleaming line of wood, keeping its voice soft enough that Sam can’t hear.

Dean understands, even as his body moves to obey, what’s about to happen. This crazy son of a bitch—some kind of South American demigod, from the look of things—is about to spill his insides out all over the bar like some makeshift altar. Oh, it’ll bring him back later, apparently, but within the next few minutes? Sam gets to watch him die.

Where the fuck did Dean ever get the idea that was an acceptable option?

“No,” he breathes. He’s surprised to hear the word make it out for all of a second before realizing that Intestine Guy is going to want Sam to hear him scream. Fuck. “Not—not in front of him,” Dean adds. Sweat drips down the back of his neck in cool trickles.

“On your back,” Intestine Guy orders, ignoring the protest, and Dean’s body reclines obediently.

The numbness falls away as soon as he’s in place—of course it does, he won’t put on a good show if he can’t feel anything—and Dean groans as all of the marks Sam left on him wake back up. He’s able to shift slightly against the bar—his jacket and pants stick to the surface where tonight’s crowd left the wood sticky with alcohol—but when he tries for more, his limbs go heavy and uncooperative.

Smiling down on him, Intestine Guy rests a hand on Dean’s stomach, casually possessive. The intestines around its neck snake over his skin as well, warm and wet with fluids Dean doesn't want to think about. His stomach turns alarmingly at the touch, and a moment later he coughs as a bitter surge of liquid gurgles up into his throat. Turning his face to the side _(away from Sam, kid doesn't have to see more of this than he has to)_ , he lets the bile come dribbling out so he won't choke on it.

“Are you ready, Priest?” Intestine Guy asks softly.

Not really, no.

But Dean has noticed that Intestine Guy has a habit of just breezing past his objections, so instead of protesting again, he fights his nausea back under control and gasps out, “When, ah, when you say I’m supposed to worship you, what does that entail, exactly?”

Who knows, maybe he can delay things long enough for Sam to break out some serious mojo and save his ass.

“As our priest, you will offer sacrifice by cutting free the still-beating hearts of virgin youths.”

“Dude, do you have any idea how hard it is to _find_ virgins these days?” Dean jokes, trying to ignore how fast his breathing has become as he tries to suck his stomach in and away from Intestine Guy’s hand. At least the intestines are minding their own business again.

“I have sensed many in this city,” Intestine Guy answers placidly. “I believe they are usually found in a place known as ‘Care of the Day’. We will collect offerings there.”

Kids. Motherfucker’s talking about Dean cutting the hearts out of little kids.

Dean didn’t think the whole priest offer could get more unattractive, but Intestine Guy just found a whole new low for him to contemplate. Cold and panicked, Dean tries to roll off the bar and away from the sick son of a bitch feeling up his stomach. His muscles, lazy bastards, whistle and go on doing nothing.

Sam can come riding to the rescue any time now.

“Look, ah, as fun as that sounds, I’m gonna have to pass,” Dean tries, focusing more intently on moving. Sweat pours off him and his head pounds alarmingly, but after a few seconds he manages to toss one leg off the far side of the bar.

Yes!

Except Intestine Guy just makes a tsking sound and retrieves the wayward limb, arranging Dean’s body back the way it wants him. Then, with a serene expression, it unsheathes a knife from its belt and lovingly trails the tip across Dean’s stomach.

“When you are reborn,” it announces. “You will live only to worship.”

“Okay,” Dean says quickly, pulling his stomach in as far as he can manage. “Okay, look. How about we make a deal?”

Because those have always worked out so fucking well for him.

But the offer makes Intestine Guy pause, which is a huge plus in Dean’s book. “Deal?” it repeats. “What deal can you possibly offer us?”

Thinking fast, Dean blurts, “You stop with the whole ‘still beating heart’ thing and I’ll worship you all you want. Okay? No more deaths and you get me. Willingly. Anything you want.”

“ _Deal_.”

Only that isn’t Intestine Guy’s voice, and Intestine Guy sure as hell isn’t on board with the way it's suddenly screaming and crumbling into bitty pieces of ash. And hey, turns out the whole cock-on-fire thing? Totally not Intestine Guy’s fault, because Dean isn’t glued to the bar anymore and he’s still horny as hell.

Oh, fuck.

He swings up, meaning to grab Sam and get the hell out of here while they still can, only to find himself face to face with a pair of bottomless grey eyes. Platinum blond hair. Chiseled, firm jaw with a short, neatly trimmed beard. Sensual smile.

“Dean!” That’s Sam calling him, but Dean can’t figure out how to tear his eyes off the guy who’s looking at him the same way lions look at gazelles. Only Dean guesses that the lions aren’t about an inch away from the gazelles when they do that.

Okay, this gives new meaning to the phrase ‘out of the frying pan and into the fire.’

“Stay still,” the man murmurs. His voice rolls through Dean’s body ruthlessly, making him give a full-bodied shudder that’s bound to leave him aching in sensitive places.

Except for how it doesn’t.

It’s unexpected enough to break whatever hypnotic thrall Grey-Eyed Dude’s gaze holds and Dean glances down at himself to find that all of the bruises Sam left on him last night have vanished. He’s been healed before—by nothing less than a reaper—and that had hurt like a motherfucker. This he didn’t even notice happening. Which means that Grey-Eyed Dude is packing some serious, serious juice.

He flinches as hands move into his line of sight to brush the flat plane of his stomach, but before he can open his mouth to protest Grey-Eyed Dude is actually touching him, and the sensation steals all of Dean’s air. Fucker’s hands are _cold_ —like ice against Dean’s skin. As Dean fights to get his lungs working well enough to take another breath, Grey-Eyed Dude slides his hands in a freezing line up Dean’s chest.

Shivers shake him as the cold spreads, locking his muscles and leaving him helpless to push Grey-Eyed Dude away the way he wants to. Dean clenches his jaw as Grey-Eyed Dude’s hands slip between his skin and the leather jacket, pushing it back off his shoulders. He flicks his eyes up, meaning to warn the son of a bitch off with a glare, and is startled to find the guy's face even closer than before.

Dean’s pretty sure that the grey of those bottomless eyes is moving. It’s flowing like mist, or maybe like a river—Dean can’t be sure which. And he sure as shit doesn’t want to know what’s on the other side of that shifting veil. Lost in billowing, restless fields of grey, he loses track of time for a few moments.

When he comes back to himself, Grey-Eyed Dude is stepping back and raking his eyes up and down Dean’s suddenly bared torso. Dean can’t feel his jacket on the bar behind him, either, which means Grey-Eyed Dude either dropped it on the floor or just winked it out of existence.

Better not have, the fucker. That jacket’s one of the last things Dean has of Dad’s.

“Nice,” Grey-Eyed Dude says appreciatively. “Itztli had good taste.”

The way the guy's voice still has Dean’s libido by the shorthairs reminds him that he has more important things to be worrying about than some hand-me-down coat and he gives himself a stronger, intentional shake in the midst of his minute shudders.

The cold is dissipating now that Grey-Eyed Dude isn’t touching him anymore, and he’s able to crack his jaw open again and rasp, “Itzit-who?”

“The god who was about to spill you out over my bar?” Grey-Eyed Dude prompts with a teasing smile. “The one I destroyed as part of our deal?”

“Our—” Dean starts, and then what Grey-Eyed Dude is actually saying sinks in. “Whoa,” he says, shaking his head. “Whoa whoa whoa. Hang on a sec, I didn’t—I wasn’t talking to you.”

“Everyone talks to me here, Dean,” Grey-Eyed Dude replies. He spreads his hands, gesturing to the empty club around them. “This is my temple. Or as close to a temple as any of my kind can claim. And you, especially.”

Leaning in again, Grey-Eyed Dude scents Dean with a long, slow breath. Too thrown off by the fact that he’s getting sniffed like he’s some kind of scented candle, Dean sits where he is and puts up with it. At least there aren’t any knives anywhere he can see, and Grey-Eyed Dude isn’t wearing any body parts or suggesting Dean take up vivisection. Dean’s starting to hope that maybe this guy, whoever—whatever—he is, is mostly harmless.

Crazy as a bowl of fruit-loops, sure, but more in the ‘My Best Friend Is A Six-Foot Tall Rabbit’ kind of way. Which Dean can totally deal with.

Then Grey-Eyed Dude straightens again, fixing Dean with those disturbing, penetrating eyes, and says, “You, who have walked forever with one foot in my kingdom, and who now dwell beneath the shadow of my throne. You, Dean, I can hear from anywhere.”

Check please.

“Okaaaaay,” Dean says carefully, trying to ease to one side.

Grey-Eyed Dude’s hands shoot out, grabbing his hips and sending bolts of ice up and down his side. Dean hisses in shock at the sensation, more than a little disturbed by the fact that the cold isn’t doing anything to cool the heat in his groin. Seriously, his dick was less slutty than this last night with Sam.

Speaking of ...

He raises his eyes to look past Grey-Eyed Dude’s body and finds Sam still frozen halfway across the club. He can’t really make out the nuances of Sam’s expression from here, but he can tell that his brother isn’t any happier about this new development than he is.

Then Grey-Eyed Dude releases Dean’s hip with one hand and grips his chin instead, forcibly turning his face back front and center. He’s still smiling, but the expression has gone as cold as his touch, and the grey of his eyes has shifted to some stormy, silver-violet color that has the same threatening quality as the sky just before a tornado. Suddenly, this situation feels a hell of a lot less easy to shrug off.

“I didn’t call Itztli here,” Grey-Eyed Dude says quietly, “But I was enjoying his pathetic attempts to regain some of his former glory. He was offering me tribute, Dean—the dead belong to me, after all, no matter how they’re acquired—and I ended him. For you.”

Dean swallows thickly and then tries, “Thanks?”

Grey-Eyed Dude’s smile deepens, but not in a way that does anything but tie Dean’s stomach into new and interesting shapes. “Your gratitude is appreciated, but not exactly the form of payment I require.”

Dean’s pretty sure he knows where this is going—hell, part of him knew as soon as Intestine Guy went up in smoke and Dean Jr. was still frisking around—but he clings gamely to ignorance anyway. “What, uh. What sort of—”

“You,” Grey-Eyed Dude interrupts. “Willingly. Anything I want. I believe those were the terms.”

Yeah, Dean remembers being stupid enough to say something like that.

“Dean!” Sam’s voice again, coming from somewhere very far away. “No! You can’t have him, you son of a bitch! He’s mine!”

Those endless, shifting eyes swing away from Dean, releasing him, as Grey-Eyed Dude turns to face Sam. Dean sucks in a much needed breath, lifting one hand to rub at his chest where his heart is beating way too fast to be healthy, and then takes the opportunity to finally get down off the bar and stand on his own two feet. He spots his jacket lying discarded on the floor and reaches for it. His fingers are just brushing the leather when it shoots out of his grasp, sliding across the floor to thump softly into the far wall.

Slowly, Dean lifts his eyes to find Grey-Eyed Dude looking back at him, expressionless but somehow disapproving all the same.

“I’m fucking cold, okay?” he snaps.

It’s only half-true. Now that Grey-Eyed Dude has moved away from him _(and toward Sam, which Dean has to do something about as soon as he can scrape enough brain cells together)_ , all Dean really wants to do is get a couple _(hundred)_ layers between his skin and the rest of the world. Between Sam, and Intestine Guy, and now Grey-Eyed Dude, Dean’s had enough of getting stared at for, oh, about the next thousand years or so.

But he knows better than to chase after his coat when Grey-Eyed Dude turns away—son of bitch would probably just pin it to the ceiling or something before he got close—so he settles for wrapping his arms around his stomach and looking around for something that might be able to serve as a weapon.

Too bad Intestine Guy’s knife went up in flames when he did: it would’ve come in handy right about now.

But there’s no use dwelling on would’ves, and Dean’s heart beats faster as he catches sight of the array of bottles behind the bar. Bartenders keep all sorts of weird shit back there—at the very least maybe he can locate a corkscrew. Moving as stealthily as he can when he’s pretty sure Grey-Eyed Dude is keeping an eye on him, Dean hurries over and vaults up over the bar. He catches himself on the other side, one hand pressed against the bar’s tacky surface for balance, and starts feeling along the shelf for what he wants.

Out on the dance floor, Grey-Eyed Dude has started to monologue. Just like every other power-stuffed supernatural asshole they’ve ever come up against. How surprising.

“What can you offer him, Samuel?” Grey-Eyed Dude asks. “In three month’s time, he will pass out of your reach completely. What comforts could you offer his soul then?”

“I’m going to save him,” Sam responds, and he sounds wretched enough that Dean has to pop his head up over the bar and look. Grey-Eyed Dude is circling close to Sam now, not quite touching him, but Sam’s head is drooping. His shoulders are slumped.

“I think you overestimate your abilities,” Grey-Eyed Dude says, and Sam sags even more.

Bastard’s gonna pay for hurting Sam like that.

“I’ll find a way.”

Sam's lips barely move, and there isn't more than a breath of air behind the words, but the club is quiet and has great acoustics, so Dean catches them anyway. His chest warms with the promise, expanding for several, precious seconds before collapsing again.

Sam might believe his words, but Dean can't. He can't afford to delude himself like that.

Blinking the sting of threatening tears from his eyes, he ducks back down and resumes his search.

Dean was right about bartenders keeping weird shit behind the bar. Only the glow sticks and dog collars he keeps finding aren’t exactly primo weapon material. Where the fuck’s a twelve gauge when you need one? If this was a normal bar it’d have one, damn it. Dean can’t think of one self-respectable watering hole that doesn’t.

“Hmm,” Grey-Eyed Dude muses halfway across the club. “I do believe you’ll try. I haven’t seen such devotion since the Dioscouri. Then again, everyone knows how that turned out.”

“What are you?” Sam demands, ignoring the taunt.

A little stab of pride pulses through Dean as he shoves a stack of black napkins aside. That’s his boy, fishing for information. Maybe Grey-Eyed Dude will let something useful slip.

But the son of a bitch only says, “I think you already know, Samuel.”

The lack of an answer is annoying, but Dean isn't too disappointed because he totally just got his hands on the longest, sharpest looking corkscrew he’s ever seen. Yahtzee. Gripping the end, he straightens and scans the club to make sure Grey-Eyed Dude’s looking the other way.

Except Grey-Eyed Dude is gone, and Sam’s standing in the middle of the room like a ditched prom date.

Oh, this can’t be good.

“Looking for me?”

The words are whispered from Dean’s right and he turns, punching his hand out instinctively and driving the corkscrew deep into Grey-Eyed Dude’s chest. For a moment, they just look at each other, and Dean has an eternity to recognize how absurd it is that he's the one wearing the shocked expression when Grey-Eyed Dude just had a huge hole poked through his lungs.

Then Grey-Eyed Dude's lips twitch up into a smile.

“Dean, Dean, Dean,” he says, regarding him almost fondly. “You can’t kill death.”

Dean’s stomach drops at the statement—which can’t be true; Dean’s dealt with reapers and they’re nothing like this—and he stumbles back against the side of the bar. He watches as Grey-Eyed Dude grips the protruding end of the corkscrew and slowly draws it out of his chest. The blue button down shirt he’s wearing doesn’t even have a hole in it.

Dean wonders wildly if it’s too late to get Intestine Guy back.

Still smiling, Grey-Eyed Dude drops the corkscrew and steps after Dean, crowding him up against the bar. Dean’s pulse pounds in his head, which is a weird sensation since all of his blood seems to have been redirected in a more southerly direction.

“What the hell are you?” he breathes as Grey-Eyed Dude eases closer.

“I _am_ Hell,” Grey-Eyed Dude replies, and then his mouth is on Dean’s and Dean is ... Dean isn’t kissing back, per say: he just isn’t putting up as much of a struggle as he maybe should be. If his entire body weren’t panting after Grey-Eyed Dude like a bitch in heat.

It isn’t anything like kissing Sam. It’s just as complicated, if for different reasons, but there’s the temperature thing, for one. Kissing Grey-Eyed Dude is kind of like making out with a block of ice. And there just ... there isn’t that all-consuming, perfect feeling of worship. There’s no sensation of being loved. Wanted, yeah, but ... but not ...

Oh hell, Sam ruined Dean for anyone else, that son of a bitch.

That’s not to say that this doesn’t feel good, though, and when the kiss ends suddenly, Dean finds himself gripping the edge of the bar while his head spins. Grey-Eyed Dude looks down at him—and was he always taller than Dean? Dean’s not sure, but he thinks maybe the guy put on a few inches while Dean’s attention was otherwise occupied.

He gropes after the train of the conversation they were having before Grey-Eyed Dude kissed him and, after a few moments, comes up with, “You’re _Hell_? That’s what you’re going to go with? Not something a little more believable?”

He can’t quite believe he’s mouthing off right now—Grey-Eyed Dude just destroyed a demigod without breaking a sweat—but Grey-Eyed Dude seems more amused than anything else. Which is ... good?

“Dean!” Sam shouts from behind him, and Dean twists his head around, looking back at his brother and doing his best to ignore the way Grey-Eyed Dude’s hands are settling back on his hips and sending shocks of cold through him. Even from here, Dean can tell that his brother is a couple of heartbeats away from panic, eyes wide and face flushed. When Sam sees that he has Dean’s attention, he yells, “He _is_ Hell. Don’t—” And then he shuts up with an abruptness that Dean’s certain isn’t his brother’s idea.

Slowly, he turns his head back and meets endless, grey eyes.

“Hades,” Grey-Eyed Dude rumbles. “If you want to be specific.”

And okay, Dean has been in some really fucking weird situations, but this one right here definitely takes the cake.

“You’re not real,” he tries, breathless, and then hisses as Grey-Eyed Dude leans in and bites the side of his neck. This time, when the guy moves back again, the cold remains, eating into Dean’s skin around what feels like a spectacular new hickey. “Fuck,” Dean mutters shakily, lifting one hand and pressing it against the throbbing skin.

“I’m going to enjoy you,” Grey-Eyed Dude—fucking _Hades_ —murmurs. His hands flex around Dean’s waist.

“Aren’t you already married?” Dean protests, getting an arm between them and pushing at Hades’ chest with his elbow.

“Seph,” Hades says. He’s frowning slightly now, but unfortunately still doesn’t look at all inclined to back off.

Dean’s getting really fed up with everyone thinking that he’s some kind of toy they can manhandle whenever they want to.

“Yeah,” he says scathingly. “The chick with the pomegranates. Go bother her and leave me the fuck alone.”

“She’s gone,” Hades replies, still not budging. “It’s always summer somewhere, and her name circles the globe now. I haven’t seen her in ... four hundred years, I think. It’s time Hell had a new consort.”

“Yeah, well, it ain’t gonna be me. Get off.”

One second Dean’s pushing at Hades’ chest, the next he’s bent backwards over the bar, wrists bound together over his head by something wet and moving. Dean shoots a glance up at them and it’s water. There’s fucking _water_ flowing around his wrists like manacles.

It’s possible that he’s been treating this situation a little more flippantly than he should be.

But he doesn't have time to kick himself for being a moron right now because Hades’ hands have shifted to his stomach, fingers splayed wide and flooding him with ice.

“She loved me once,” he says, and for the first time Dean can hear death beneath his voice: something deep and cold and yawning and endless. “You’ll love me in time.”

One of his hands moves up, covering Dean’s heart, while the other shifts into place over the bulge of Dean’s rebellious cock. The warring sensations of fire and ice are maddening and make him squirm silently against the bar.

“Your deal has been accepted, Dean Winchester,” Hades intones. “Death’s hand cradles you. You belong to Erebus now. You belong to me.”

Cold stabs into Dean through his heart, and he can feel it happening—Hades’ claim stenciling into his soul and bones and skin. It hurts—burns worse than fire, the way that only ice can—and he opens his mouth to scream. Hades’ hand is there before anything can come out, blocking the noise and numbing his jaw. Dean blinks up through tearing eyes as the pain gradually fades, leaving him with nothing worse than the impression of a chill wind moving through his insides.

Slowly, Hades removes his hand from Dean's chest and straightens again, although he doesn’t do anything about the water circling Dean’s wrists or the power holding him still. He just stands there, regarding Dean solemnly.

Then he says, “You’re very beautiful. The Halls of Tartarus will light for you for the first time since my father cast them into the dark.”

“If you think I’m just gonna roll over for you—”

“No. I’ve watched you most of your life, Dean, just as I watch all those who worship at my altar. I know you will not come easily. And I will not touch you without permission, I promise you that.” One corner of his mouth twitches wryly. “I’ve learned my lesson on that count, at least. Honey is sweeter when coaxed than when taken by force.”

Dean’s stomach flips with embarrassment at the allusion—or maybe it’s the fact that Hades is still cupping his cock that’s the problem.

“You may have your three months,” Hades continues. “Say your farewells. Once the hounds have run you down, and you have been safely collected, I will come for you.”

Oh shit, the demons. Dean can’t believe he forgot about them, but he remembers now in a relieved rush. He can’t quite believe he’s happy about his deal, and the absurdity of it forces a laugh from him.

“You laugh?” Hades asks, cocking his head.

“Deal’s shot, buddy,” Dean announces, giving Hades his best shit-eating grin. “My soul’s already sold. No double-dipping, and they’ve got dibs.”

But Hades only smiles. “You think Lucifer won’t give me what’s mine? We are brothers, he and I. We suckled at the same teat.”

Dean’s stomach drops at the cold, knowing expression on Hades’ face.

“He has spoken of you, Dean,” Hades says, voice lowered to a whisper now. “In the dark of the Pit, I have heard your name. I know what use he has for you, and I know also that once you have served your purpose there, he would be more than happy to release you to my keeping.”

“You’re lying,” Dean says, but his voice comes out a shaky rasp.

Hades smiles. “Am I? Ask Samuel’s friend. Ask his tame demon. Tell her to answer in my name and show her my mark; she’ll be bound to speak the truth.”

He leans in close and Dean, swallowing, turns his face to the side. He can feel Hades’ breath against his upturned cheek like a winter wind, and then there’s a crystalline, icy sensation. Hades pressing a slow kiss in his skin. Dean clenches his jaw and does his best not to shiver.

“When you have your answer, we’ll speak again.”

Dean blinks and Hades is gone. Dean can tell from the way the room is that much warmer, and from the way he can sit up. The water’s gone from his wrists, but the skin there is still damp to the touch, and the hickey on his neck is radiating cold.

Not a hallucination, then.

“Dean!” Sam slides over the bar to Dean’s right and then grabs him by the arms, pulling him up. “You okay?”

“Fine,” Dean answers. It really isn’t the case, but he doesn’t know what else to say. He isn’t sure how he feels, actually—still more cold than anything else. He guesses it’s shock.

When Sam pulls him close, Dean doesn’t resist. He maybe even goes a little gratefully, thankful for Sam’s warmth. For the flicker of heat that pulses through his chest at the sensation of being held so tightly.

Then Sam jerks back, getting hold of Dean’s arms again, and shakes him.

“What the _fuck_ were you thinking?” he yells. “I told you to stay away, damn it!”

Dean thinks maybe he should be feeling defensive, but he’s too cold to manage it. “I know,” he says instead. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry? You just sold yourself _again_ and you’re _sorry_?”

“I’m really sorry?”

“Jesus Christ, Dean, you—” Sam stops speaking suddenly, eyes fastened on Dean’s chest.

“What?” Dean says, pulling back a little and looking down himself. “What’s wro—huh.”

The anti-possession tattoo is gone. In its place, there’s an upside down cross growing upward into a crescent. A hollow, black ring hangs within the cradle of the crescent’s horns.

This is so not his week.


End file.
